Excuse Me, How Long?
by T-R-Us
Summary: Modern Day. Troubles with his roommate results in David moving in with a new crowd during his freshman year of college.


**Title:** _"Excuse Me, How Long?"_  
**Rating:** PG-13 (T)  
**Authoress:** T-R-Us  
**Time:** Modern Day (2004)  
**Authoress' Notes:** Excuse Me is a work of love. Love for Newsies, and love for writing. It was my goal for the year 2004, and while it was not finished on time, it proved to be a trial of discipline. It's like NaNoWriMo, but instead of 2,000 words every day for a month, it's 1,000 words a day. Every day. For a year. (Leap year, no less.) It's useful for a day to day thing. Waiting for Christmas? The newsies are too, an advent calendar if you will. Perfect for any time of the year. So I must say, this fiction took a lot of work in initial writing and rewrites, so if you could drop one or two reviews, that would be absolutely wonderful! Thank you, one and all!  
Just another note, this chapter is unusually long – just to set the pace. The other chapters are all around 1,000 words in length. For the most part, at least. I try not to go under that word count – because where's the glory in "a chapter a day" if a 'chapter' is fifty words long?

**Chapter 1: "January 1****st**** – Happy New Year"**

Anthony Higgins poured another jarful of peanuts into the crystal serving bowl on his mother's dining room table. The beautifully crafted oak usually gleamed from a daily polishing, but after the party it had suffered through, it was lucky to still be standing. The imported French vase and the antique hat rack had met far worse fates – and that was within only the first fifteen minutes.

Overall, it could be said to have been the 'biggest, noisiest blowout of the year' – as most of the Higgins-hosted parties were - but considering that it was New Year's, anything else would immediately fail in comparison. No other event could amount to as much cheering and screaming as when the ball on Times Square fell, except quite possibly the third grade food fight that Jack Kelly had started way back when.

Everyone on the guest list had shown up at some point or another, and for this Anthony – Racetrack, to his friends – was grateful. The more people, the less he had to do to entertain them. His few, close friends had spent the night, while everyone else had trekked out a few hours before dawn, after noisily ringing in the new year.

Continuing to refill the food bowls, Racetrack stepped over the sleeping forms of both Mush, and Itey. Scowling, he resisted the urge to crush his younger half-brother's hand between his foot and the floor tiling. It was hard to believe that the little baggage had only been imposing on their lives for a few weeks, when Mrs. Higgins had found him standing on their doorstep. He had with him a letter, detailing Racetrack's late father's sordid affair. In Anthony's eyes, Itey was a nonentity, but his mother felt differently. She'd tried her hardest to make Itey feel accepted, _a little too hard,_ sniffed Race, plunking a wayward pecan into a dish.

Alexandre Alexei Higgins.

_Lo-ser._

In the nearby study, the soft sounds of MSN dinged from an old computer.

**BROOKIE KING SPOT** says;  
Dean, I'm not coming home.  
**CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT, I'M HOT!** says;  
You little bastard. You're screwing our whole family over. Brenda's thinking of committing suicide and mom's all messed up.  
**BROOKIE KING SPOT** says;  
I'm not like you, Dean. I can't stay there.  
**CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT, I'M HOT!** says;  
We need to work it out.  
The following message could not be sent to it's recipient;  
We need to work it out.

An annoyed clearing of the throat drew Simon Conlon out of his computer induced trance. Turning away from the blurry lights of the screen, he scowled at the intruder, lower lip furled and eyes flashing dangerously. It almost appeared as though he had forgotten where he was.

"Get out." Racetrack was livid. Careful not to rush forward and sock this _guest_ in the face – as his instincts were screaming at him to do - he narrowed his eyes, and held the door to the room wide open, indicating that the intruder should leave. Immediately. What business Spot had there, Race didn't know, but he wanted him _out_.

The teen had been invited to party along with everyone else, although Racetrack had never counted him among his own personal friends. He didn't seem to fit into any particular group within their high school. No one lived near the Conlon's, the school and almost all of its students were residents of Manhattan, while Simon's family was from an entirely separate borough - Brooklyn.

Spot's scowl deepened, mirroring Race's expression to perfection, "It doesn't say 'room off limits'." He'd wanted to go home. He'd wanted to go home badly – but what Spot would never tell anyone was that he wasn't _welcome_ at home anymore. He knew he wouldn't be able to stay there on New Year's and had brought his tattered, old sleeping bag with him to the party – much to the chagrin of Racetrack and _his_ friends.

"This is my dad's study, you're supposed to stay out." The Italian was practically spitting the words out through clenched teeth. "I mean it."

"Ain't your father dead?"

Race's eyes widened, and – unable to control himself any longer – he shoved Spot into the wall behind him. It wasn't hard, the Brooklyn kid was small, but that didn't leave the naturally short Racetrack with any obvious advantages, however there was a sickening thud as the Brooklyn resident's head collided with the hardwood paneling. Rolling up his sleeves, Racetrack jumped in, fists pumping, to strike Spot with as much force as he could muster.

Eyes popping open, Mush – back in the dining room – jumped. He'd woken at the sound of a picture frame falling from the wall in the adjacent room. _What was going on?_ Mentally preparing himself for the worst, as he'd seen some pretty harrowing sights in Racetrack's house late at night, he wheeled around into the open doorway. Groaning, at both his hangover and the sight of the brawl, he put out his hands as if to stop the fight. "Race – stop it!"

Taking no notice, the Italian continued to hit his victim, while Spot cussed and struggled to get out of the way of Racetrack's flying hands.

"Race!" Kid Blink, it seemed, had gotten up as well, and after adjusting his prominent eye patch, leapt into the fray. Assuming it was Spot who had started the fight, in one way or another, he shoved Racetrack to the side to get at the smaller boy.

Always the pacifist, Mush hurried back to wake his friends – all just as hangover as he. Most had a reaction similar to his own. Bewildered drowsiness turned to amazement as Dutchy and Specs tried to calm down the aggressive Racetrack, and Cowboy took his place in the fight. Only Mush and Bumlets beseeched them to stop, standing on the side lines.

"**Anthony Higgins**!" The voice was loud, splitting the semi-silence in a decidedly feminine tone. Antoinetta Higgins was a very tolerant woman, or at least, she liked to think so. Her only son – excusing Itey's sudden appearance - was allowed whatever worldly goods he desired, whatever parties he wished to throw – alcohol or not – and as much pocket money as he could reasonably contain, but this, _this_ was overstepping the boundaries.

"**What is going on in here – **" As the sounds of Racetrack's mother neared, Blink and Cowboy leapt away from Spot. It was too late however: the pair of black eyes and a bloody nose would be evidence enough against the four fighters. As Mrs. Higgins stormed into the room, in all the glory of a flower-print bathrobe, she snarled at the sight of Spot's injuries. "I think… that this party is _over._" Icily she glared at the boys, "I believe your keys are being kept in the kitchen."

The boys hurried to gather their things, and went past Race's mother to the kitchen – but not before she had stopped both Cowboy and Blink.

"You two are better than this," from her tone, they knew she was more than just angry at them. "Go home. And don't come around here until you have some dignity."

Where other seventeen years olds may have found the comment amusing, the two teens turned red with embarrassment. Despite her small stature, the Italian woman certainly packed a punch with her words alone, and had been able to for as long as Racetrack's friends could remember. 

In the study, Antoinetta had moved on to other things, and was bent over Spot, now sitting up. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name – "

He looked down at his hands, sullenly. "Spot."

"Your _real_ name."

"It's just Spot."

Figuring that her son had gotten caught up in some form of gang violence – ooh, he was in for it, later – she motioned towards the kitchen. "If you'll just come in here, and give me your phone number –" A laugh drew her attention back to her wayward offspring, "Party's over. Get upstairs."

Race's sneer vanished instantly, "Mama – "

Pointing in the direction of the stairway, she roared, "_Ottenga alla vostra stanza questo istante._" When he failed to move immediately, she added, "_**Ora!**_"

There was nothing he could do but trudge up the stairs in defeat.

"I certainly hope your resolution this year is to toe the line."

The only response was the slamming of Racetrack's bedroom door.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Louis Steven Ballat!" The call was practically feral, the wild scream of a mother about to unleash her fury on her teenaged son. Blink cringed, not even two feet in the door. The problem with being friends with anyone these days, he told himself begrudgingly, was that your parent's became friends, too, and this was no less true for his own mother.

"Antoinetta called – " Clad in a 50's style dress and apron, Rebecca Ballat brandished a wooden spoon at her second oldest son threateningly. "You were beating the – the – "

"Crap?" Supplied Andrew, Blink's older brother, as he walked past the stairway. The carpeted steps had become something of a "time-out zone" for as long as any of the Ballat's could remember. Blink could still remember the days when he could stretch his legs as far as they would go and still not reach the next step.

"Drew, if I ever hear that again – " Rebecca paused. Her eldest son was almost twenty, there wasn't much she could do to impress upon him that his language was inappropriate. A quick change of tactic left her with only one viable option, "What would happen if your sister heard those words?"

"Mommy," as if on cue, the second youngest Ballat appeared, gazing at her brothers with wide, fearful eyes as she grabbed a hold of her mother's apron corner. "Can you help me with my homework?"

"And here she is now! I'm sorry, Sheilah, sweetie, but I have to wash Andrew's mouth out with soap, and think of a good punishment for Louis." The boys exchanged glances, then looked away quickly, laughing now would be a death sentence.

"Stupid, fu – "

"Sheilah Jane Ballat!"

"Oops."

Where Racetrack lived in the lap of luxury as an only child, Blink had grown up in a typical American home. He suffered through being a younger sibling: Andrew had the car he wanted, the good-looking girl friend and the scholarship to play college football, but Sheilah had the babyish charm and sweetness that attracted every one's attention. In short, Blink suffered from a severe case of middle child-itis.

While his mother worried over Sheilah and berated Drew's foul language, Blink stole his way up to his bedroom – his true sanctuary. The room wasn't huge, like Racetrack's, but it was bigger than Snitch's, and that's all anyone needed. There was just enough space to hold a dresser, bed, director's chair and Blink's oh-so-old 16mbRAM Windows '95 desktop computer.

"Hey, champ." The greeting was accompanied by the soft rapping of shave-and-a-haircut on the bedroom door. "You up for some lunch?"

"Can't." He flicked on the ancient power bar, and stared blankly at the screen as it ran through the systems check that accompanied the booting up of his computer, "I'll be put before the firing squad."

"For beating up that guy at Tony's party?"

"Yeah, something like that." The screen turned blue, telling Blink that an "improper shutdown had been detected." "Look, he started it."

"I'm sure he did."

The blank look of lethargy on his face turned to one of frustration, "You going to keep standing there all day?"

His father shrugged, "You going to wish me a happy new year?"

"Will you get lost if I do?'

"Say it, and we'll see."

While Kid Blink was wishing his father a happy new year, Bumlets was facing the stern reflection of his own father's pale blue eyes in the rear view mirror of his car. He had driven himself home from Racetrack's, of course, but had been shanghaied into "going for a drive" with his dad. Who had heard the story from someone else's parents.

For as long as Bumlets could remember, his upright father was only comfortable behind the wheel of a car. It didn't have to be an expensive, popular model, just as long as there was gas in the tank and a road ahead, Alec Lyle Sr. was a happy man.

Except when he wasn't. 

"Son," he began, as he began all of his conversations with his only son, "What happened?"

Bumlets held his gaze for a few seconds more, he was clearly in disgrace, his eyes dropped. "There was a fight." He couldn't continue to look at his father while the disapproval continued to radio in. He could always lie, but his father had always been able to see through any story he could come up with.

"You were taught to know better."

_Taught by who?_ Bumlets asked himself, bitterly. _Certainly not you._ "I know. I apologize."

"What did you do?"

It was a simple question, with an equally simple answer attached, "Jack and Louis – "

"I didn't ask what they did. I asked what you did." He was using _the tone_ now, and Bumlets fell silent. He didn't dare cut in that he was about to get to what he had done, if his father had only listened, a skill he wasn't particularly good at. "Alec – "

"Dad!" The car had gone into a spin, having hit black ice that Alec Sr. had failed to notice. His son's last thoughts were a sudden awareness of his seat belt as it pressed him to his seat, wrapping itself around his throat. The world around him seemed to freeze and fall silent, as the road rushed by… and then it all went dark.

**Ending Authoress' Notes:** Well, there's the first chapter. Hope you liked it! Blah, I'm still working on getting some of the more out-there language on the newsies. Especially Race, Blink and Jack who should probably be swearing a whole lot more. Ah, meh, it kills the story if there's a swear word every other sentence. Anyway, half of the original chapter was cut out of this. There was a scene about David, Dutchy/Specs and another one of Racetrack, but they saw the chopping board. Oh well, it'll all come around again, eventually, I'm sure.  
On another note, apparently "shanghaied" is a word. Go figure.


End file.
